


The Lion Sleeps Tonight

by prettylittlementirosa



Series: a thrill to press my cheek to [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Frenemies, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Sam Wilson, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Unexpected Heart Boners, Unexpected feelings, frenemies to lovers, unexpected boners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7335664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettylittlementirosa/pseuds/prettylittlementirosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s too cold to be embarrassed by how quickly he scrambles to get in there. It’s a tight fit, getting two grown men into one regular sized sleeping bag, but they make it work. Bucky shifts this way, Sam slithers that way. Bucky pulls Sam flush against his chest, Sam tries not to dwell on it. Bucky breathes hot air onto Sam’s exposed neck, Sam tucks his ice-cold toes in between Bucky’s legs. Bucky sighs contentedly, Sam wills his dick into submission.</p>
<p>(Or 5 times Sam and Bucky are forced to share a bed + 1 time they choose to.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lion Sleeps Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) Hooooo boy. This is the first fic I've written in what is probably a year now. I apologize for returning in such a ridiculous manner. (jk I'm not at all I love writing ridiculous fic AND I LOVE THESE TWO IDIOTS.)
> 
> 2.) I use "sharing a bed" and "forced" in the very loosest sense of the terms. 
> 
> 3.) Un-beta'd. Also un-edited. As always, sorry for the gratuitous/inconsistent/incorrect use of punctuation.
> 
> 4.) Warnings: very light D/s undertones for like a total of three paragraphs.
> 
> 5.) This is Civil War compliant up to Bucky losing his arm. Just pretend like that never happened. Also pretend like he never made the decision to go night-night. Also also pretend like nobody went straight to Wakanda, they all went to back to America. For reasons. Super scientific fun fic reasons.
> 
> 6.) Vaguely inspired by that one general prompt about bed-sharing on tumblr that I can't find right now.
> 
> 7.) In summary: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Oh and you can find me making fun of Sebastian Stan on tumblr at [bisexualbcky](http://bisexualbcky.tumblr.com/)

**[1]**

Sam cannot believe the amount of bullshit he puts up with just because Steve goddamn Rogers asks him to. It’s that deceptively bashful smile Steve flashes when he doesn’t want anything so that when he actually  _ needs _ something and puts on his serious soldier face he can fool you into thinking he’d never ask if it wasn’t important.

Except, well, he’d never ask if it wasn’t important. Which is why Sam agrees to stay with Bucky while Steve goes off to “take care of some things.” Whatever the hell that means. (Sam knows what it means but he’s having a moment here. A moment of pure unadulterated hate for Steve’s blind devotion to an actual former assassin. Sam’s not entirely sold on the ‘former’ part.)

“You know it’s actually a lot roomier back here than it looks,” Bucky says from the backseat of the Volkswagen Beetle. Through the rearview mirror Sam can see that Bucky’s got his back up against the window, right arm slung loosely over the seat. He’s the picture of comfort and Sam is about two seconds away from turning around and punching him in his stupid unshaven face. “How’s the front working out for you?”

Sam can practically feel the  _ smug _ radiating off of Bucky but he’s not going to do this. He’s not going to admit that his little petulant tirade insisting that Bucky sit in the back even though the passenger seat was vacant has actually worked out in Bucky’s favor. Which of course it has. Because now that they’ve pulled off the road to try and catch a few zzz’s, Bucky’s got room to stretch out and Sam has a gear shift up his ass.

It’s fine though. Sam’s a soldier. He can sleep anywhere, in any position.

Probably. 

He can’t. He spends the entire night simmering in annoyance listening to Bucky’s soft and even breaths behind him. Every twenty minutes Sam is tempted to “accidentally” make a loud noise just to startle Bucky awake but even Sam’s not that cruel. Peaceful sleep doesn’t come easy for soldiers. He can’t imagine what horrors must live in the Winter Soldier’s mind. Instead he makes a list of all the ways he can annoy Bucky once they’re back on the road.

And then he makes a list of all the ways Steve owes him for this little trip. It’s a long way to Wakanda when there’s no Stark-owned private jet involved.

Sam is  _ finally _ starting to drift off when he feels the car rock, startling him into wakefulness. He casts a glance around looking for the source of the disruption, eyes landing on a blurry Bucky Barnes climbing out of the car.

Sam lets his head fall back against the headrest, lolling to the side. He watches Bucky’s retreating form as the guy makes his way to a bush and then takes the world’s longest piss. Sam hopes the metal hand is freezing against Bucky’s dick. It’s the only coherent thought his brain can muster at this hour with this little sleep.

Bucky makes his way back to the car but when he opens the door he doesn’t climb in. Instead he leans down just enough to see Sam and, with what could probably be interpreted as remorse, says, “Suns up.”

Sam doesn’t really think you can classify the sun as being “up” when it’s barely peaking over the horizon and it’s still dark enough that you have to drive with headlights on. He doesn’t say any of that though. What he does do is try to telepathically convey how much he hates everything about what is happening in this moment. 

Bucky clears his throat but he doesn’t look away. He’s just as capable of silent petulance as Sam is. Unfortunately Sam is not at peak antagonism levels at the moment and he’s not sure he can win this stare off. He’s doing his damnedest to swallow a yawn when Bucky sighs and says, “ I’ll drive.”

And even though that’s the only real option at this point, Sam still does his best to be as difficult as possible. “Like hell you will. Do you even have a driver’s license? Where’d you learn to drive? Russia? I’ve seen those Russian dash cams. I am not dying because your geriatric ass can’t respect the rules of the road. It is not my time to go.”

By the time Sam’s climbing out and handing the keys off, Bucky’s wearing a soft smile and shaking his head. Sam doesn’t know what that means. He tries not to dwell on it as the road passing under the Beetle rocks him to sleep.  
  


**[2]**

Sam regrets every decision he’s ever made in his life. Even that time in first grade when he chose to draw the sun wearing sunglasses. He regrets it all. Because every decision, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, has led him to this very moment.

“But how can we really know? Just because their brains don’t look like our brains doesn’t mean they’re not capable of the same functions.” Bucky has been yammering on about fish and whether or not they’re capable of higher intelligence for at least twenty minutes now. Sam’s been doing his best to ignore him and feign sleep but  _ it’s. not. working _ .

“Wilson,” Bucky says. He’s lying on his back on one side of the bed - the single full size bed in the motel Sam had insisted they get lest he spend another night  _ not _ sleeping in that godforsaken piece of metal Steve calls a car - staring at the ceiling like it contains the answers to the universe.

Or at least that’s what Sam assumes he’s doing. He’s not really sure since he’s chosen to lie with his back to Bucky so that he can ignore him with optimal effect.

“Wilson,” Bucky tries again, this time with a nudge.

“Ask me if fish have feelings one more time. I dare you,” Sam snaps.

For a minute there’s silence. Blissful, glorious, sleep-inviting silence.

Then, “Well obviously they have feelings. The question is whether or not they remember their feelings.”

“I will murder you,” Sam says, whipping around to glare at Bucky.

Turns out Bucky’s not on his back. He’s lying on his side, right arm curled earnestly under his head like a second pillow. He looks so soft and harmless and  _ young _ that Sam deflates almost immediately, until he notices the way Bucky’s shoulders are shaking with barely concealed laughter.

When Sam’s eyes go wide with realization, Bucky breaks into full-bodied laughter, rolling onto his back and clutching his stomach.

“No. Uh uh.  _ No _ ,” Sam says and moves to express his outrage with actual physical violence but before he even realizes what’s happening he’s flat on his back, arms pinned to his sides by Bucky’s thighs straddling him. There are metal fingers gripping his throat but they’re not tight enough to do anything besides let Sam know that they  _ could  _ do something if they wanted to.

“You lasted way longer than I expected.”

Sam has never seen Bucky look so amused, so  _ light _ . He would almost think it was a good thing if that amusement didn’t come in the form of a shit-eating grin and two-hundred pounds of solid muscle cutting off his circulation and making it somewhat difficult to breathe.

“I hate you so much.”

Bucky’s fingers tighten around Sam’s throat almost imperceptibly for a beat before he’s climbing off Sam and pulling the covers back to crawl into bed.

In protest to what the fuck just happened (and a little bit because he’s stunned into stillness) Sam doesn’t move. It doesn’t make a difference. Bucky’s strong enough to pull them out from under Sam but it’s the principle of the matter.

“Goodnight,” Bucky says, all faux innocence, pulling the covers back up around him, leaving Sam to stew in the silence he’s been waiting for all night. 

_ Fuck him _ Sam thinks.  _ Fuck him and his stupid metal arm and his stupid perpetually windblown hair and his tragic backstory. Fuck him. _

Unfortunately, Sam’s dick seems to agree that’s the best course of action. Which honestly just makes Sam angrier. What is he? Bella Swan? Into the bad boy who makes it abundantly clear that he could hurt him but chooses not to because he’s special. Oh no. Nope. This is not Sam’s life. He crawls under the blanket, his back to Bucky, and musters up the worst fart he’s capable of summoning, hoping the laws of physics will direct the airflow directly to Bucky’s nose.

Bucky doesn’t say anything but Sam’s pretty sure he gets the point. He falls asleep with the smug satisfaction of getting the metaphorical last word.

Sam wakes to the smell of coffee. The good kind, not the shitty motel kind. When he opens his eyes to locate the liquid gold his irises are flooded with light. It’s way past sunrise, which means it’s way past the time they should be getting back on the road but he can’t bring himself to care. There’s a heavenly cup of coffee on the table right next to the bed and there’s steam billowing off the top. It’s the most beautiful thing Sam’s ever seen. It tastes even better.

He sits up just as Bucky’s coming out of the bathroom. He’s got a towel slung around his hips and he’s using a smaller one to scrub his wet hair dry. Sam’s never seen him look so human. Minus the glaring metal arm, of course. Sam clears his throat and Bucky looks up, slightly startled.

“There’s still hot water,” he says, nodding in the direction of the bathroom.

Sam lifts his chin in acknowledgement. He watches Bucky squeeze toothpaste onto a toothbrush and start brushing. Bucky tilts his head to the right to brush the left side and to the left to brush the right side. Then he tilts his head back to brush the front. He finishes it up with a few swipes across his tongue and spits the toothpaste in the sink. It’s so mundane. He even rinses the sink out. Before Sam can think too deeply about why that even matters -  _ what the hell, Wilson? -  _ he takes a final gulp of his coffee and heads into the bathroom to shower.

They don’t get back on the road until about 9:30.

Sam sighs the sigh of the eternally inconvenienced. “We’re late.”

Bucky shrugs. “Sometimes sleep is more important.”

Sam does not think about the fact that Bucky wasn’t the one who overslept.

 

**[3]**

The thing about the term  _ safe house _ is that it’s completely misleading. Most safe houses don’t feel very safe, nor are they even houses half the time. This time safe house refers to what is technically an apartment but is realistically a small room with a chair in one corner, a twin mattress on the dirt covered floor, and a single table lamp (no lampshade) plugged into the wall.

Bucky thinks it’s funny.

Sam does not. He really does not.

“Fucking Steve Rogers and his contacts,” he mutters to himself as he throws his bag on the floor. He makes sure to frame ‘contacts’ with air quotes in his head.

Honestly, Sam would willingly sleep in the Beetle at this point. Too bad they had to leave it back in the states. Even the hours of interrupted-by-turbulence-sleep hiding between wooden crates on the cargo plane was a better night of sleep than this is shaping up to be.

Sam runs a hand over his face, trying to work out the logistics of two grown men sleeping on a single mattress made for children. He’s envisioning the scene in Titanic where Rose is lying on the door, leaving Jack to freeze to death in the icy Atlantic, when the sound of Bucky’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

“I’m gonna go find some food,” Bucky says and slips out.

Sam sighs and takes the opportunity to stretch out alone on the mattress. He wonders how many diseases a person can contract from a dirty mattress, then tries to push the thought out of his mind. That kind of thinking is not going to help the situation at all. Unfortunately, once the thought’s crossed his mind, it can’t uncross his mind; and now he just feels as if a thousand little bed bugs are crawling all over him. 

“Ugh.” He shakes himself, swatting at the invisible imaginary bugs crawling all over him and gets up to sit in the chair. He’s still glaring daggers at the Evil Mattress when Bucky returns with a couple of bags in his hand.

He hands one of the bags to Sam. “Sandwiches.”

Sam takes it and peeks inside. Sandwiches, indeed. The kind that are hot and wrapped in greasy yellow paper, all artisan and shit. That improves his mood slightly.

“What’s in the other bag?” he asks and takes a bite out of a piping hot meatball sub. He doesn’t even care what the answer is by the time the warm food hits his stomach. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was but now that he has food he’s acutely aware of how long it’s been since he last ate.

Bucky reaches into the other bag and pulls out what looks like a package of black socks, holding it up for Sam to see. “The only way either of us are getting any sleep tonight.” 

“No offense, man, but I don’t think new socks are gonna make a difference in this shit hole,” Sam says around a mouthful of food.

Bucky cocks his head to the side - kind of like a confused kitten - then rips open the package, pulling out what is too big to be a pair of socks. It’s a sheet. Bucky Barnes - hundred year old soldier, the deadliest assassin in the history of the world, fist of Hydra - bought a brand new sheet, which he is now shaking out and delicately placing over the disgusting excuse for a mattress lying on the floor. Annnnddd it’s a fitted sheet. Bucky wraps the scrunchy edges around the corners of the mattress, then stands up, hands on his hips, admiring his work.

Again, Sam is hit with the mundane sensation of Bucky’s human-ness. Not his humanity, but the fact that he’s just a person. Not that Sam didn’t know that before. He did. Of course he did. Sometimes it’s just hard to reconcile the guy he first met - the Winter Soldier who was trying to kill him - with this one, the guy that buys a fitted sheet and sandwiches and stands with his hands on his hips.

But if Sam thought Bucky standing there like that was the most jarring thing he would see the other man do, he definitely isn’t ready for what happens next: in what is most definitely a thing Bucky’s done many times before (judging by the practiced dexterity of the movement), he swoops his hair up into a messy bun with a hair tie that he must’ve been keeping on his wrist. Then he shrugs out of his jacket and toes off his shoes. He stares at the newly-sheeted mattress for a second before coming to some sort of decision and slithers out of his jeans. Then the guy, all two-hundred pounds of him, sits down on the mattress, legs crossed like he’s ready for Reading Rainbow and holds out his hand to Sam in a grabby gesture, waiting to be handed a sandwich.

Sam’s brain short-circuits.

“What the fuck,” is the only response he can muster.

“You took the chair,” Bucky says like that’s a completely logical explanation for what just happened. The rational part of Sam recognizes that it probably is a completely logical explanation for what just happened, but the rest of Sam is only capable of slowly blinking in response.

Bucky sighs. “If you prefer, we can discuss the mating habits of the seahorse. Personally I think the way they dance together in the morning is their form of roman-“

Sam throws the bag of sandwiches at his head just to shut him up.

Bucky grins. He’s way too good at this- navigating other people’s moods and using them to get what he wants. It doesn’t really make sense given the fact he spent seventy years using weapons and raw physical power to get what he wanted. This talent for reading people and knowing exactly what to say- that’s all  _ Bucky _ . There’s no trace of the Winter Soldier there. Sam would never admit it but when he sees this Bucky, he understands exactly why Steve couldn’t kill the Winter Soldier. This is the Bucky Barnes that lost his life fighting a war with Steve; but he’s not a name in a textbook or a ghost in a picture. He’s a real person, sitting in front of Sam, legs crossed, hair up, loose strands falling down his neck, biting into a sandwich and chewing with his mouth closed.

Bucky Barnes is a person and even though Sam hates him, he kinda really doesn’t.

“Big spoon or little spoon?” Bucky says, startling Sam out of his thoughts.

“Huh?” Sam asks.

Bucky gestures to the mattress. “It’s the only way we’re both gonna fit.”

He’s right. Of course he’s right. But he’s still Bucky and Sam’s still Sam so he chooses to glare at Bucky in lieu of actually responding.

Bucky shrugs and starts to lie down. “When you make a decision, I’ll be here sleeping with all this space to myself.”

Dammit. How does Bucky keep winning? Why is he so unbothered by everything? Why does he get under Sam’s skin so easily?

Sam gives in with a groan. “Little spoon.”

“Metal arm or human arm?” A question Sam was not expecting and doesn’t really understand. There’s a beat of silence before Bucky elaborates. “If you’re gonna be the little spoon, you’re gonna have my arm around you - I don’t make the rules, that’s just how spooning works - which one do you prefer?”

Sam wants to object to the notion that spooning requires any sort of arm-wrapping at all but instead finds himself answering, “Metal.” He tells himself it’s so the human one will fall asleep from Bucky lying on it but deep down he knows it’s because some part of him thinks it will be less  _ intimate _ , like the metal arm’s not really a part of Bucky.

He’s not sure why that even matters but when he lies down in the curve of Bucky’s body and feels Bucky slide his arm around his waist, loosely curled metal fingers resting against Sam’s chest, he knows it’s not true. He’s acutely aware of just how very  _ Bucky _ the arm actually is. For a moment it’s too much for Sam and he jolts up, trying to shake the feeling of intimacy. It’s not even a big deal. He doesn’t know why he’s making it a big deal. He’s shared beds with lots of people - including Bucky - and it’s been fine. It’s just a sleeping arrangement but for some reason his pulse is racing and his stomach feels like it’s going to fall out of his ass. He makes the mistake of looking down at Bucky - who is blinking back up at him like a startled kitten, arm hovering uncertain in the space between them - and blurts out the first excuse he can think of.

“Pants. I forgot to take off my pants.”

“Okay,” Bucky says slowly and waits for Sam to take his pants off.

Which, you know, objectively speaking only makes the situation worse. Because now there will be one less layer between Sam and the very real man waiting to spoon him.

But he’s already said it, can’t take it back now, so he shrugs out of his jeans, then forces himself to lie back down on the mattress, waiting for Bucky’s arm to wrap back around him.

Instead, Bucky says, “This is weird.”

Sam flings his arms up. “Thank you!”

“You didn’t have to make it weirder by taking your pants off,” Bucky says, amusement clear in his voice.

“You know what, man, fuck you. You try being spooned by a murderous kitten with a metal arm.”

There’s a beat of silence in which Sam thinks maybe insulting the arm went a little too far, but then Bucky says, “Did you just call me a kitten?”

Sam smiles. He can’t help it. Bucky does kind of remind him of a kitten. “A murderous one.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh, his breath tickling the back of Sam’s neck. “Guess I’m gonna have to start calling T’Challa ‘Dad’.”

Sam snorts. “Please let me be there when you try that.”

“You just wanna see me get my ass kicked.”

“Hell yeah I do,” Sam says over his shoulder.

“Too bad you don’t seem to be any good at it,” Bucky says, full of mirth.

“Hey I let you win,” Sam says. “It’s part of the road to recovery. Gotta help build your self-esteem back up, you know.”

Bucky laughs at that, loud and brilliant, and Sam feels a flutter in his chest when Bucky snakes his arm back around him, nestling deeper into the bed.

“Thanks for the support,” Bucky jokes around a yawn. It’s the last thing Sam remembers before he falls into what is one of the best nights of sleep of his life.

  
  


**[4]**

Sam blames it on Disney and their blatant racism. In his mind, Africa is hot. Safaris and jungles and shit. Warm climates. That’s the picture he had in his mind when he agreed to sleeping in a tent as opposed to another one of Steve’s contact’s “safe houses.” He figured it would be a night of what basically amounts to camping. And camping is something he can definitely handle, no problem.

This is not camping. This is a fucking monsoon. And he’s trapped in what he can only hope continues to be a waterproof tent with Bucky.

And he’s cold. He’s really freaking cold. He’s doing everything he knows how to do to get warm. He’s snuggled down deep into his sleeping bag and he’s breathing out of his mouth, hoping the warmth from his breath will heat the cocoon he’s made his sleeping bag into.

It’s not working.

His teeth are chattering.

“You would not have survived World War II,” Bucky grumbles from his own sleeping bag.

“I fought a senseless war in the desert. I don’t do rain,” Sam snaps back with as much disdain as he can muster. Which is not a whole lot. Especially not with all the shivering.

With a sigh, Bucky heaves himself into a sitting position. “Get up.”

Sam peaks out of his cocoon but otherwise doesn’t move.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I can’t sleep with all this chattering and you definitely won’t be getting any sleep if you freeze to death. Get up.”

Begrudgingly Sam sits up. He wraps his arms around his chest to conserve some heat and looks at Bucky, waiting for him to do something.

“Out,” Bucky commands.

Sam stares at him, both to convey how much he really doesn’t want to get  _ out  _ of anything and also to prompt some sort of clarification.

“The sleeping bag,” Bucky says. “Get out of the sleeping bag. Actually get out of the clothes too.”

Sam glares. Bucky glares harder; he’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxer-briefs and he seems perfectly comfortable like that so he wins. Sam climbs out of the sleeping bag and starts to take off his many layers.

By the time he’s done (it takes awhile to de-robe in such a confined space) Bucky has arranged the sleeping bags so that Sam’s unzipped sleeping bag is acting as a support layer underneath Bucky’s still-zipped one, which he’s in, propped up lazily on his elbows.

Sam would have some thoughts about that if he wasn’t so fucking cold.

Bucky gestures at the sliver of space in the sleeping bag next to him. “Little spoon?”

Sam’s too cold to be embarrassed by how quickly he scrambles to get in there. It’s a tight fit, getting two grown men into one regular sized sleeping bag, but they make it work. Bucky shifts this way, Sam slithers that way. Bucky pulls Sam flush against his chest, Sam tries not to dwell on it. Bucky breathes hot air onto Sam’s exposed neck, Sam tucks his ice-cold toes in between Bucky’s legs. Bucky sighs contentedly, Sam wills his dick into submission.

Just normal dude stuff. 

Sam should just let it go. Let the weirdness of it pass and fade into restful sleep. That’s definitely what he  _ should _ do. Instead, he says, “Didn’t realize you were such a cuddler, Barnes.”

Bucky makes an  _ mmm _ sound against Sam’s neck and snuggles in closer. “It’s Steve’s fault,” he says sleepily.

Sam considers taking that for the non-answer it is but he’s feeling way too out of his element and he needs to get back  _ in _ his element so naturally he chooses the argumentative route.

“I’ve known Rogers for several years and not once has he ever cuddled me.”

Bucky’s quiet for a minute, then, “Maybe he doesn’t like you.”

The antagonism of his words are in direct opposition to the way he’s running his hand, the human one, up and down Sam’s arm in an attempt to warm it up.

“Steve used to be really small,” Bucky says after a few minutes of this. “And he was always cold. Then there was the war and we were all cold.”

Sam considers the heat radiating off of Bucky’s skin and seriously doubts this. “You’re like a fucking furnace, man.”

Sam can feel Bucky smile against his skin. “Why do you think Steve always wanted to cuddle with me?”

“I assumed it was because of your sunny disposition.”

“That and he liked my dick.” He says it so casually, so off-hand, that Sam can’t tell if it’s a terrible joke or he actually means it. After a few too many moments of silence, Bucky says, “Relax. I’m joking.”  Then, “Well, kinda.”

Sam snorts. “Thanks for clearing that one up.”

Bucky laughs, quiet. His hand stills on Sam’s now-warm wrist. “We were just teenagers fucking around. What else are friends for?”

“Not that,” Sam splutters. “I mean I don’t know what it was like growing up back then but… yeah, no, definitely not that.”

Bucky shrugs behind him and starts moving his hand up and down Sam’s arm again, this time with a feather-light touch. Sam’s not even sure Bucky realizes he’s doing it. It’s… distracting to say the least.

“Are you still cold?” Bucky asks him. His voice is soft and sleepy and muffled by Sam’s shoulder and Sam feels that flutter in his chest again, the one that’s becoming all-too-familiar. 

He does his best to tamp it down but he’s pretty sure his words come out a little shaky when he says, “I’m good.”

If Bucky notices, he doesn’t say anything, just drifts off to sleep.

Sam doesn’t think he’ll ever sleep again.

 

**[5]**

It only takes them one more day to make it to Wakanda. Sam never thought he’d be so happy to see the man that helped land him in Oceantanamo.

T’Challa greets them with a warm smile. “Welcome,” he says and holds his hand out for Sam. Sam takes it easily and thanks him for his hospitality. He can’t wait to take a long hot shower, put on some clean clothes, and sleep peacefully. By himself. Without Bucky. Never again with Bucky.

Bucky, who has been acting skittish since the minute they stepped on T’Challa’s grounds. He’s clutching his backpack to his chest like he’s afraid someone’s going to try to forcibly separate him from it. His stance is all tension- ready to move, ready to fight at the drop of a hat; and Sam does not miss the way Bucky’s eyes dart around, clocking every single guard, every possible source of danger, all while cataloguing every exit. Bucky barely even makes eye contact with T’Challa when he shakes his hand.

It’s weird. It’s in stark contrast to the fairly easy-natured guy Sam’s been traveling with for the last week. It’s like someone took out his  _ Bucky _ chip and replaced it with a broken Winter Soldier one. Sam doesn’t like it. The tension in Bucky’s shoulders is making  _ him _ tense. He considers the situation: the last time Bucky saw T’Challa, the man was dressed like a cat and trying to kill him. It’s at least a little understandable that Bucky would be uncomfortable around him. So when T’Challa excuses himself to go deal with his Kingly duties, Sam is a little surprised to see that Bucky’s demeanor doesn’t change at all.

T’Challa leaves them with one of his guards. She motions for them to follow her, which they do. 

The place is the most aesthetically pleasing piece of architecture Sam’s ever laid his eyes on. It’s a freaking palace filled with the most highly advanced technology Sam has ever seen - and he briefly lived in Stark Tower. It’s incredible.

After they’ve been walking for about five minutes, the guard comes to a stop. She opens a door and gestures inside. “This is your room.”

She doesn’t indicate which one of them she’s talking to so he asks, “Me? Or him?”

“Both of you.”

“Ummm,” Sam begins. He peers inside. It’s a sizable room but there’s definitely only one bed.

“This is the only room available tonight,” the guard says in what has got to be the most unimpressed tone of voice Sam has ever heard.

Sam looks at her in disbelief. This place is bigger than any hotel he’s ever been in. There’s no way there’s not another empty room.

She arches one eyebrow at him. “The King says you need a place to stay. This is what I have for you tonight. You don’t like it, you can leave.”

Sam’s opening his mouth to say something that’ll probably get his ass kicked when Bucky shoves him into the room. “It’s fine. Thank you,” he says curtly. As soon as the door is closed and locked, Bucky’s doing a sweep. It’s not exactly out of the ordinary, he’s done it pretty much everywhere they’ve stayed. It just seems unnecessary in this situation. They’re safe now.

Besides, Sam doesn’t want to watch Bucky, whatever version of him is present right now, sweep the room for surveillance equipment and weapons. He wants to complain. Loudly. Unfortunately the only person to complain to at the moment is doing his paranoid assassin thing so Sam decides the only thing that is going to make him feel better right now is the world’s longest and hottest shower.

It’s the best shower in the whole world. The water temperature is perfectly controlled, the pressure feels just right pounding on his aching bed-deprived muscles. The steam has got to be doing amazing things for his pores. And the soap! Sam forgot how much he enjoys not smelling like ass. Even the towels are perfect. Soft and fluffy. Sam never wants to leave.

When he finally makes it out of the heavenly bathroom - wearing the softest pair of cotton pants and a t-shirt that’ve ever touched his skin - he finds Bucky sitting at the table with a half-eaten pizza in front of him. He’s bent over the table writing something down. Without looking up, he pushes the pizza box an inch in Sam’s direction.

Sam would ask how Bucky managed to get a pizza delivered to the room but he’s too hungry to care. By the time Sam’s finishing up his half of the food, Bucky’s already disappeared into the bathroom. Sam closes the box and picks up the thing Bucky was writing on- a crossword puzzle. He was doing a damn crossword puzzle. Sam scans the page and is surprised to find that Bucky has enough knowledge of pop culture to correctly fill in Beyonce as the answer for 7-across but left 10-across (fictional Italian American mobster Tony ____ ) blank. Sam wonders how much of this Steve would be able to fill in.

The thing about Steve being old as shit is everybody recognizes that he is. Everyone’s aware he missed seventy years of life happening and they’re all doing their best to catch him up. Bucky’s a different story. At least Sam thinks he is. He’s not really sure how much Bucky learned (or even remembers) while he was doing Hydra’s dirty work. Plus there’re those two years between D.C. and Berlin that are mostly unaccounted for. Sam has no idea what knowledge lives in Bucky’s brain. He does seem to know an awful lot about marine life though.

Sam mutters something to himself about Bucky Barnes and fish, then writes S-O-P-R-A-N-O in 10-across. He’s trying to remember how to spell “Bundchen” for 24-across when Bucky comes out. Sam smells him - the scent of expensive luxurious soap in glorious contrast to the musk they’ve been stewing in for days now - before he sees him. He is not prepared for what he sees when he does look up.

Bucky’s hair, though obviously clean, is completely dry and pulled back into a soft bun; the wisps that aren’t long enough to stay up are framing his face. His face, which is freshly shaven. Sam has never seen Bucky without a beard, but here he is, standing in from of Sam, face smooth as a baby’s bottom, and Sam is having trouble breathing.

Bucky walks over to the table - and Sam is sure he’s not imagining the way his cotton garments  _ swoosh _ with his easy movements - and leans over Sam to see the progress he’s made on the crossword puzzle. Something about it must be funny because he chuckles but Sam is too busy trying to catch his breath to figure out what it is.

Bucky points to 33-down. “Topmen,” he says before walking over to the bed. When Sam finally gets control of himself, heart rate settling, he looks down to see that Bucky’s right. 33-down is ‘topmen.’ He fills it in, then debates whether to keep doing the crossword as a means of distraction from the tragically beautiful brunette lying languidly on the bed with one arm casually stretched over his head, or to actually engage the tragically beautiful brunette lying languidly on the bed with one arm casually stretched over his head.

Sam opts for secret option number three: take the crossword puzzle to Bucky. Cause doing a crossword puzzle in bed with a man you’re supposed to hate is a perfectly rational thing to do.

Sam sits down on the other side of the bed with his back against the headboard and reads out the next clue. “Greene of the original ‘Battlestar Galactica’ series.”

Bucky turns his head and looks up at Sam. His movements are casual, easy, like he wasn’t a ball of tightly coiled tension a mere two hours ago. “Lorne,” he says.

Sam looks to see if it fits (it does) and writes it in. “How the hell do you know that?”

Bucky shrugs. “Hydra had a lot for me to do in the seventies.”

Sam has a lot of questions about that but decides to let them go for now. He doesn’t want Bucky getting all weird again. He moves on to the next clue. “Matthew McConaughey has one.”

There’s a beat of silence before Bucky says, “A… bongo?”

That startles a laugh out of Sam, and now he can’t let it go. Bucky’s making jokes like he wasn’t just preparing to fight the entire nation of Wakanda if he had to. It’s too much. “Man what the hell?” Sam says.

“I read about it in a magazine,” Bucky says, mistaking Sam’s question.

“Not the bongos. Everybody knows about the damn bongos,” Sam says. “I mean this.” He gestures at Bucky. “You. I thought you were going to dropkick the King of Wakanda and his entire royal staff when we got here. Now you’re making jokes that are fifteen years past their relevancy.”

Bucky just stares at him for a minute, jaw working like he’s searching for an explanation, like maybe even _ he _ doesn’t know what it was about. And that, well that hurts Sam, because as much as Bucky’s a pain in his ass, Sam knows that what happened to him was not his fault. He didn’t ask to be this person. Now Sam just feels like an ass. He’s about to apologize for bringing it up when Bucky opens his mouth. “I don’t know these people.”

Not the answer Sam is expecting. “Dude, you barely know  _ me _ .”

“I know that your favorite coffee is a dark chocolate melted truffle mocha from Starbucks. It’s disgusting,” Bucky says playfully.

“Okay first of all, don’t you ever insult the masterpiece that is the Starbucks’ dark chocolate melted truffle mocha again. Second, how the hell do you even know that?”

Bucky turns over on his side to face Sam. “The only way to successfully outrun someone for two years is to know where they are and what they’re doing.”

Sam shakes his head. “I hate you so much.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything to that but he doesn’t look hurt. If anything he looks amused, like leading Sam on a fruitless chase and wasting two years of his life is something he finds entertaining.

“Emotionally stunted senior citizens,” Sam grumbles as he re-situates himself.

“I’m not the only one with PTSD here,” Bucky says. His voice is so soft Sam’s not entirely sure he was meant to hear it. But he did, so he turns to Bucky and raises his brows, waiting for an explanation.

Bucky scratches his chin. “You talk in your sleep.”

Oh. Sam wasn’t aware he did that. The only dreams Sam ever has these days are nightmares; he can only imagine what Bucky’s heard him say.

“Not so much if I hold you tight,” Bucky says. “Like… like the pressure or whatever, it calms you down.”

Sam’s not really sure what to say to that. He knows the scientific explanation for what Bucky’s saying - it’s the activation of his parasympathetic nervous system; that’s not the thing that surprises him. It’s the fact that Bucky’s been doing it; and that Sam had no idea.

“It’s not a big deal,” Bucky continues. “I used to do it for Steve all the time. And Dernier sometimes if Jones was on watch.”

Sam can tell he means it. It’s not a big deal to him. It’s like stopping to drape a blanket over a friend who’s fallen asleep on the couch so they don’t get cold. It’s the easiest thing in the world.

As if to illustrate this, Bucky pats the space next to him, signaling Sam to lie down with him. Sam’s helpless to do anything but comply. He tosses the crossword puzzle on the floor and lowers himself on the bed next to Bucky.

He lets Bucky manhandle him into the position he wants him- the little spoon pressed up against his chest. It’s- it’s really nice, especially now that they’re both clean and in a real bed.

Bucky runs his hand up and down Sam’s arm, just like he did in the tent when he was trying to warm Sam up, except this time it’s the metal one. It sets Sam’s nerves on fire. The flutter is back in his chest and he can’t help himself from sighing in contentment when Bucky’s hand moves to his chest, pulling him tighter against him.

“No more nightmares,” Bucky says into Sam’s shoulder. Sam can’t imagine dreaming about anything but heaven when he feels like this, warm and taken care of and  _ safe _ . 

“What about you?” he asks.

Bucky presses his face into Sam’s shoulder for a couple of seconds, then says, “I think if someone tried to wrap their arms around me while I was sleeping, they’d end up with my hand around their throat.”

Sam thinks about the night in the motel and snorts. “Probably.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, like he knows exactly what Sam’s thinking about.

The thing Sam remembers most about having Bucky’s hand around his throat though is how much he really didn’t mind it. Or, to be more accurate, how much his dick didn’t mind it. “I kind of liked it,” he ventures because why the fuck not. He has no idea when he stopped actively hating the guy, definitely no clue when he started finding him attractive, but none of that really matters right now, not when the only coherent thought he even has at the moment is that he wants to be closer to Bucky, wants more of the man’s skin on his.

Bucky moves his hand up Sam’s chest until it’s resting at the base of Sam’s neck, metal fingers curled loosely around the curve of his throat.

“I know,” he says, his lips brushing the back of Sam’s neck. It sends a shiver through Sam’s entire body. Bucky responds by slowly moving his hand up Sam’s throat, applying light pressure to every inch he comes in contact with, then gently guides Sam’s face toward him. Sam goes with him willingly, desperate to meet his lips. Bucky automatically props himself up on his elbow and brushes his lips against Sam’s. His hand slides down the side of Sam’s neck, then snakes around and back up to the base of his skull as he deepens the kiss, letting his tongue slip in. It’s warm and it’s soft and by the time Sam finds himself being pressed into the mattress by the weight of the other man, he’s already breathing hard and rocking up against him.

There’s just something about the way Bucky touches him - the firm pressure, the intention of the movements, the control he exhibits so Sam doesn’t have to - it’s overwhelming and Sam gets lost in it. By the time he’s naked and spent, he’s not even sure he knows his own name anymore.

It’s okay though. Bucky’s arms are around him and he’s never felt safer. He drifts calmly into a dreamless sleep.

 

**[+1]**

Sam’s on his back and he’s seeing stars. Bucky’s got his feet hooked over his shoulders, hands pinned to the mattress, and he’s sliding in and out as excruciatingly slow as possible. His level of restraint is, frankly, incomprehensible. But Sam’s not complaining. Bucky’s kept him on the edge for what feels like hours now. Definitely not the worst way to spend a Saturday morning.

It might not even be morning anymore. Sam has no idea. Time has ceased to exist for him. He’s on a whole new plane of existence. Especially when Bucky keeps doing that thing where…. yep, he’s circling his hips ever-so-slightly to brush up against Sam’s prostate, but not enough to get him off. It’s a glorious sensation and Sam is prepared to experience it and only it for the rest of his life when there’s a knock at the door, causing Bucky’s hips to still.

“Ignore it,” Sam exhales, canting his hips up to try and get Bucky moving again.

Bucky complies but he doesn’t take his eyes off the door. At the second knock, he pulls out altogether. He shoots Sam a sheepish glance, then grabs his pants off the floor.

“Uh uh,” Sam says, standing up. He’s a little wobbly on his feet and his legs feel like spaghetti. He takes the pants from Bucky and starts to put them on. “Not letting you answer that door. You might end up killing someone and then I’m never getting off.”

Bucky snorts and lies back down on the bed, while Sam goes to answer the door. It’s T’Challa.

“Good morning,” the King says. “Nakia tells me you are unhappy with your sleeping arrangements. I have another room available for you if you’d like.”

Sam looks over his shoulder at the extremely naked, excessively beautiful man lying on the bed, just out of T’Challa’s view. “That won’t be necessary.”

T’Challa smirks. “Captain Rogers arrived late last night. I will tell him you are busy this morning.”

Sam clears his throat and nods.

That’s probably going to be an awkward conversation but Sam’s forgotten all about it thirty minutes later when he’s sated and sex-happy, falling back to sleep with Bucky’s arms wrapped securely around him, hugging him tight against his chest.

 


End file.
